


Over the Abyss

by aimingarrows



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Depression, Gen, Mentall Illness, PTSD, Slight Johnlock - Freeform, Tragedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-20
Updated: 2013-07-20
Packaged: 2017-12-20 19:48:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/891149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aimingarrows/pseuds/aimingarrows
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The thing is that Sherlock Holmes never existed at all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Over the Abyss

**Hello everyone!**

**I added in details about John's childhood that have not been mentioned on the show. I am basing it on A Study in Pink when Sherlock deduces John and says he's a war hero who can't find a place to live (most likely his parents are dead).**

_Summary: The thing is that Sherlock Holmes never existed at all._

" _If you understand hallucination and illusion, you don't blindly follow any leader. You must know if the person is sane or insane, over the abyss." - Marguerite Young_

**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock.**

* * *

 

John Watson was no ordinary man.

When he was six, he fell off the climbing frame in the playground and scraped his knees. It had stung when his mother wiped the blood with ice cold water, but John Watson never faltered. He stuck out his chest like the big boy that he was and announced proudly to his mother that he was more than capable of applying the ointment to his wounded skin.

When John Watson was six, he decided that he wanted to be a doctor.

And as the seasons came and went and winter melted away into spring, and the animals woke from months of hibernation and the birds began to sing, John Watson steadily grew up.

He finished primary school with cuts, bruises and scars that will never fade away from years of tag and ageless games, and entered middle school with a determination in his head and a heart full of love.

He made new friends and experienced new scars when the girls he fancied left him stumbling in the dust, and yet he continued to tend to his own wounds, emotional, physical and the like. Unlike his friends, school wasn't indescribable torture for him because he was somewhat well liked and popular and his friends did always tell him that he had a way with words.

Then time moved on again, the clock's hands ticking away every second that the sun was in the sky and every minute that the moon would rise above the horizon, and John finally entered high school.

He met first loves and experienced new feelings and his sister finally revealed something that he had slight inkling about all along, and he got a part time job as an intern at the clinic during the weekends so he could save up for university and spare his parents some money.

John Watson always had a big heart.

And underneath that big heart, was a pretty good mind, too.

He completed his GCSE's, gaining top marks in biology and chemistry, and graduated from high school with (almost) flying colours.

John remembers his graduation day quite well. The sun was up for once, and the weather wasn't too cold nor too hot, and there were only a couple of scattered clouds in the sky.

Then the wind rolled in, and the sky darkened.

And it was on the car trip back to the house when the rain started, and the car that had John in it, skidded off the road.

The world became flashes of red and white, and all the images were blurring into one mess of confusion and shards of chaos. John heard his mother scream in fright and he could hear his father's grunts as he tried to gain control of the spinning car. But he never did.

The next thing John knows is that his seatbelt is rubbing into his skin and that it's the only thing keeping him from falling to the side of the car that's touching the ground.

The car had flipped into a ditch, and was now laying on its left side in a vertical angle.

The world was still as blurry as ever, and the blood dripping onto his face certainly didn't help either. There was a sharp ache in his chest and he could see that his right arm didn't look like it should, and considering the considerable amount of blood dripping on his face that he must have obtained a head wound as well.

Head wounds always bleed a lot.

And John Watson's father had his face covered in blood.

Now, John Watson was never the squeamish type, but seeing your own parents in such as state can make someone so.

And suddenly it was quiet. It was so, so quiet. It was like the world stopped turning and for one second John thought that maybe he was dying.

Everything moved slowly, and John likened it to the tragic scenes in movies where the heroes are in peril and their loved ones can do nothing but stand by and watch them burn.

And John Watson was no hero.

After time seemed to have started ticking again, the dark night turned red and blue, and the bright lights made John's head hurt. He knew that he shouldn't move his head in a situation like this, since his neck could be broken, but John didn't bother because if he was going to die then he might as well have tried to see if someone had tried to come save them.

He saw his sister, being held together by two newly arrived policemen, with tears streaming down her rosy cheeks and her hair all tousled and wild, and he's never felt more grateful that she missed his graduation because of a commitment to a new woman called Clara.

He sees a black crow perched on a tree branch on the other side of the road, and watches it fly away until suddenly there's nothing left but darkness.

* * *

His father died that day.

His mother succumbed to her wounds shortly after.

And the day he woke up was the day that John Watson swore that he would never let anyone on his watch die again.

That was the day the world hardened John Watson.

He decided that he'd join the army after he trained at Bart's, so he could help save those who can't do anything to save themselves.

He'd do anything not to make the same mistake.

And he'd die trying if it meant saving somebody else.

Then Afghanistan happened and as it turns out, he almost did.

* * *

As he touched down in London and walked through Heathrow Airport, he tried to ignore the pitiful stares of those whom he passed as he hobbled along with a cane and a tremor in his left hand. His duffle was loosely slung over the uninjured shoulder, and he gazed down to avoid any eye contact.

No, he couldn't allow them to see the broken look in his eyes. He couldn't let London see the shell of the man he once was.

As he passed through the doors to Arrival, he stumbled along the rows of people waiting for their loved ones. Children holding tightly onto their mother's hands, grandparents gently awaiting their children and grandchildren come through the gates. It was a chorus of happiness and love, and it made John Watson's heart ache to the bone.

It just reminded him that he had no family anymore.

He had nothing except what was in his small duffle bag, and a small sum of money that should have already been deposited in his bank account.

It was a new life. And John Watson thought that this world was an entirely different universe to the one he left.

As he approached the exit to the bustling airport, he was suddenly pulled to the side and enveloped in a hug, and by instinct, he pushed away.

He will never forget the look on Harry's face.

She looked sad, with frown lines around her eyes and dark circles framing her face. Her cheeks were sunken, and her once blue eyes were now almost black with despair.

John can't help but wonder if he looks the same way.

"How are you, John?" she asks.

And he finds that he doesn't know the answer.

* * *

They are in his dreams, every night.

Soldiers donned in uniform, running away over desert fields and mountains of sand under the hot blazing sun. Men and women, running towards the fields of danger, not knowing if they're ever going to return.

John saw a lot of blood during those years. Far too much.

He made friends, and he lost friends. And the hole in his heart left by his parents continued to grow, and John's just waiting for the day when he won't have a heart at all.

He will always have their blood on his hands.

On the really bad days, John finds that he can't look at himself in the mirror, because the man that looks back at him isn't the man he wanted to become at all. That man is broken and lifeless with nothing but a dead look in his eyes.

The walls are dented in the shape of his fists, because sometimes he's so angry and he hurts so much inside that he just wants to  _break himself._ And he hates himself for being alive and getting the chance to live his life while there are others who deserve it more.

Harry saw his gun when she came by for a surprise visit, and John supposes that visiting is better than drowning herself with alcohol bottles. But he can't help but be mad that she had to go invade his privacy.

He just wants to be left alone.

He was always meant to be alone.

But he's not alone, not really. Sometimes he can feel the gust of the wind chill his bones, and he swears that he can hear the pained cries of his fallen comrades.

He sees them at night, bruised and bloody with an arm outstretched begging for John to save them.

_But he can't save them._

Because he had to go and get shot himself, and he chose his life over theirs.

And he  _hates_ himself for it.

Harry then advised him to go to a therapist to get help. He wants to tell her that it's no use, but he keeps his mouth shut so she'll just leave him alone.

He doesn't see his sister for a very long time.

* * *

"How's your blog going?"

"Yeah, good," he clears his throat, "very good."

Ella straightens her back and looks at him in the eye. "You haven't written a word, have you?"

"You just wrote 'still has trust issues.'"

She glances down towards her clipboard, "And you read my writing upside down. See what I mean?"

His lip quirks up.

"John," she begins, "you're a soldier, it's going to take you a while to adjust to civilian life, and writing a blog about everything that happens to you will honestly help you.

"Nothing happens to me."

* * *

He was walking through the park, clad in a jacket and eyebrows furrowed, limping along and minding his own business when he saw him. When he saw his past simply sitting on a park bench without a care in the world.

He didn't know why he didn't turn around, he didn't know why he just kept walking.

And ultimately, as he quickened his pace past Mike Stamford, the man himself obviously recognized him, too.

"John! John Watson!"

As John turned around, he inwardly grimaced at Mike's happy face and trouble free eyes, wishing that he could be just as happy.

He still doesn't know why he didn't just turn around.

"Stamford," he gestures to himself, "Mike Stamford. We were at Bart's together."

John feigns surprise, "Ah, Mike, hello."

And then they got to talking, and John's life changed forever.

* * *

Sherlock Holmes. A man who can identify a software designer by his tie and an airline pilot by his left thumb, and apparently read John's military career in his face and leg and his brother's (actually sister's) drinking habits from his mobile phone.

He was an…extraordinary man.

Extraordinarily stupid.

Who the hell goes after a serial killer on their own?

And maybe that's the thing about Sherlock Holmes, he's stupid and brilliant, he's childish and petulant, and he was quite possibly the most intriguing man that John had ever met.

His tall, lean body is framed by well-cut expensive suits and a dark coat that well paid stock brokers would love to get their hands on. The mop of curly black hair on his head was almost perfectly styled, and it was a wonder whether or not he actually woke up with his hair already like that.

And yet, underneath that dark and mysterious look was a man who was so cripplingly awkward and had such a lack of knowledge about social convention that it made John cringe.

The first thing that John noticed when they arrived at the crime scene, was that Sherlock Holmes was not a well-liked man.

He was straightforward and to the point and he held no information back, he was arrogant and manipulative and everything that John Watson would have normally hated in a man.

And yet…he didn't.

He didn't hate Sherlock Holmes.

Because the second thing he noticed when they arrived at the crime scene was that the pain in his leg was subsiding, and he felt something new…something  _exciting,_ something that he had not felt for a very long time.

He felt… _alive._

And he's been dead for a very long time.

And perhaps Mycroft was right, he did crave the war, but not for the reason that one may think.

No, he misses it because it was the only time in his life when he felt like he was worth something.

And after saving Sherlock, John felt as if he found a place in the world again.

* * *

Coming home to 221B Baker Street felt normal. He settled in his newly claimed armchair and fluffed the Union Jack pillow, and breathed out slowly.

And for once, he could not feel any pain in his leg.

He felt someone staring at him, so he quirked his eye open and saw the feline eyes of Sherlock looking at him.

"What?"

The other man shrugged, "Nothing…I guess I'm just not familiar with having company."

John stared back as Sherlock got off the sofa and walked into his bedroom, leaving his coat and scarf hanging lazily over the back of a kitchen chair.

And he thought that maybe Sherlock was lonely, too.

* * *

The first couple days of living with Sherlock was…interesting to say the least.

John ultimately fell asleep on the armchair, and woke up the next morning to a soft knock on the door and the friendly face of Mrs. Hudson with a tray of scrambled eggs and bacon, and John felt his stomach rumble in need.

She reprimanded him about falling asleep on the armchair because it wasn't good for his posture, and after he thanked her for bringing up breakfast she responded by saying that she wasn't their housekeeper, and that she was only doing it because of the rough night they had experienced.

He nodded his head in thanks again and watched her as her back retreated down the stairs. A quick glance out of the window offered little sunlight, and John guessed that it was probably around six in the morning. And as he stretched, he realized that he was still wearing clothes from the day before, and decided that it was time to go back to his now about-to-be-abandoned flat to retrieve his very minimal amount of items.

He left and shut the door, but didn't lock it because neither Sherlock nor Mrs. Hudson had given him a key yet, but only after having a bit of the breakfast left for him.

He hailed down a cab and got in, watching as the world flew by and as people lived their ordinary daily lives.

And John realized that after last night, his life can no longer be classified as 'ordinary.'

As much as he hated to admit it,  _again,_ Mycroft was right. He saw the world differently now, he saw the flaws and the cracks in the walls, more so than before.

John had never thought that the world was perfect. He knew that it was cruel and cold, and held nothing but despair for those in it.

The world is crazy. Just now it's even crazier.

John had seen the battlefield. It was filled with dust and smoke and blood. But with his newly opened eyes he could see things much more clearly.

London was a completely different battlefield.

One that needed saving.

And Sherlock awakened something in him, he awoke the John Watson that wanted to  _fight._ Because now he feels like he's found a place in this world and damn him if he lets anyone else die on his watch.

He doesn't think he can handle anyone dying before his eyes anymore.

When the cab stops in front of his building, he pays the driver and struts up the stairs, unlocking the door to his flat and entering.

It's lifeless.

As John looks back to his flat, he notices the bare walls and the plain bed in the corner of the room. The flat has a lot of space, and yet John feels suffocated by the memories of those he has lost.

He grabs his duffel bag from the closet and begins to fold his clothes.

When John finally begins to start collecting his belongings from his study table, his phone buzzes.

_What are you doing at your old flat? –SH_

John rolls his eyes.

_How did you know where I was? –JW_

He packs his laptop and his phone buzzes again.

_Obvious. When are you going to be back? –SH_

_I'm packing up my stuff and in half an hour if you don't stop texting me. –JW_

_I prefer to text, see you in half an hour. And buy milk. –SH_

John narrows his eyes, and thinks that his life has definitely changed.

He finds that he doesn't really mind.

* * *

The second night of John's stay at 221B Baker Street, he was awoken by a horrible screeching noise coming from the living room below him.

He groaned and pulled a pillow over his head.

After ten minutes of insufferable music, John marched downstairs and found Sherlock donning a blue robe and standing by the window with a violin perched on his shoulder.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?"

Sherlock turned around, an eyebrow quirked slightly. "Playing the violin, isn't it obvious?"

John wrinkled his face, "No of course it's not obvious. It's not like I didn't see you holding a musical instrument in your hands."

"I thought you said you didn't mind the violin."

"I never said such a thing. I never answered you when you asked how I felt about the violin."

Sherlock shrugged noncommittally, "Can't do much about it now."

"Why on earth are you playing the violin at three in the morning?" John asked.

"Bored."

John furrowed his brows, how could this man be bored? "Sorry, what?"

Sherlock groaned, "Oh, I hate repetition. I'm  _bored_."

John felt his mouth gape open, "Then go to sleep!"

"Can't."

"Why not?"

"Sleeping's boring."

John suppressed a grimace, and Sherlock likened this look to one of an irritated Detective Inspector Lestrade.

The detective merely turned around and picked up his violin, now playing a beautiful melodious song that echoed through the walls of the flat, and John looked up to the ceiling and expressed gratitude with a thankful look.

So he went back upstairs, and let Sherlock's playing lull him to sleep.

He didn't have nightmares that night.

* * *

Sherlock Holmes was an insufferable man.

He would play the violin based on his mood, and most of the time that meant horrible noises until three in the morning, and John would sometimes wake to small bouts of explosions rattling his room.

When he would ask, Sherlock would just stare at him blankly and say, "Experiment."

There were body parts in the fridge and chemistry sets in the cupboards, and John once spent about two hours organizing the kitchen for a place to put  _actual food._

And for some reason, they were always out of milk.

It was about a week after John first moved in that he decided to finally give Mrs. Hudson a break in taking care of them and get the groceries himself.

He left Sherlock sitting in his chair reading a book and went to Tesco's, taking a look at his list every once in a while, and wondered whether he'll be eating most of the food because Sherlock seems to have the inability to take care of himself if no one else reminds him to do it.

Then he had to have a bloody row with the machine.

So John went home red-faced, apologizing profusely to those who were waiting behind him in line, and left.

Sherlock was still sitting in his hair, a book balanced in his hands, although John did note that his hair looked slightly more ruffled.

He sat down in his armchair opposite him, twiddling his fingers and fidgeting around his chair nervously after he read the bills. He really didn't want to ask him for money.

To his surprise, though, Sherlock got a text message and suddenly sprung up and proclaimed that he had to go to the bank. And John didn't exactly know why he followed him.

As it turns out, he and Sherlock stumbled upon a smuggling ring called the Black Lotus, and London was looking much more macabre than it originally used to.

What he didn't expect though, was to be ambushed on his date with his beautiful coworker by his flatmate, and get abducted from his home by people who thought that he was his said flatmate.

All John really wanted was a sense of normalcy amidst all that madness, but as it so happens, life isn't like that with Sherlock Holmes.

He was thankful, so,  _so_ thankful that Sarah was brave, and that Sherlock came after them, but John supposes that Sherlock was just trying to pay him back from saving his life from the cabbie.

After the entire fiasco, Sarah had told John that she needed a break, and she advised him to take one, too, because if this was his life, then he better be damn sure that he doesn't get caught up in it all the time.

If John had to be honest, he was almost sure that Sherlock had an underlying look of panic in his blue eyes when they were in the cab on the way back to the flat, but he decided not to ask since it was obvious that the man was riled and itching to play an exciting piece on his violin and John just really wanted to sleep.

* * *

They had their first row just after John had finally typed up their cases on his blog.

Yes, Sherlock had overreacted. No, John doesn't think that he should apologize for what he said.

If he had to reflect, John was almost sure that Sherlock was not only offended, but  _hurt_ , as well. He certainly doesn't like anyone to think that he isn't as intelligent as he projects himself out to be.

He left, and Sherlock had asked him where he was going, but he simply replied with a curt, "Out," and passed Mrs. Hudson on the stairs. He thought he faintly heard Mrs. Hudson ask Sherlock if they were having a little domestic.

He walked out, not really sure where he was going, and found himself at Sarah's front door.

They weren't a thing, that didn't work out, but they did have friendly flirting rounds and the occasional coffee outside of work. Sherlock would sometimes text him during these times updating him on his experiments simply because he said that telling John was a bit more satisfying than telling the skull.

And if he had to admit it, John had actually grown a bit fond of the eccentric detective.

Sure, he was childish and petulant and he really did have no knowledge at what was considered rude and what was not, but he provided good company and they would often have breakfast together at the flat, reading the paper and discussing current news before Sherlock deleted it.

He provided the company that John was so sorely lacking.

Sherlock, dare he say it, Sherlock was a  _friend._

Then the explosion happened and John felt like he couldn't breathe when he imagined a bloody and beaten Sherlock lying on the floor of their flat, surrounded by debris and shards of glass.

Baker Street looked like a warzone.

And London started to look like a much more dangerous battlefield.

He felt his heart slow down when he saw Sherlock calmly plucking the strings of his violin, now wearing a suit instead of a robe, with his brother idly sitting in his armchair with his umbrella held in his hand.

Turns out they were about to start one of the greatest games they've ever played.

A game that would quite possibly change the both of them forever.

Because a battle of wits is a much more dangerous game than a battle of brawn.

And as it turns out, the price of losing is greater than death itself.

* * *

John finds that his dreams are no longer plagued by the screams of the fallen, but rather of that night at the pool, where he was strapped to a bomb with a bullet aimed at his heart.

He'll never forget the look on Sherlock's face when he thought John was Moriarty.

He looked like a lost puppy, his wide eyes filled with obvious hurt, and John finds that it was that moment when he realized Sherlock was human.

He was as susceptible to fear as anyone else.

The following days after the pool were filled with silence, as if both of them were almost embarrassed at showing that they were both scared to lose one another.

It took a while for Sherlock to be able to look John back in the eye, especially after he had risked his life to try and save him.

John, on the other hand, felt a bit unsettled by the fact that he had risked his life to try and save his flatmate. No, not flatmate,  _friend._

Sherlock was more than just a flatmate.

Sherlock, as John hates to admit it, Sherlock became his new life.

He was fighting once again.

But Sherlock Holmes isn't a battlefield.

* * *

He had never seen Sherlock like that before. Him with Irene Adler. It was different. It was electrifying.

She was  _The Woman._

The Woman who beat him and the one woman clever enough to make him feel special.

She was brilliant, even John can't deny that. She was everything that Sherlock was, except she let love dictate her actions, and that alone was her downfall.

"My brother has the brain of a scientist or a philosopher and yet he elects to be a detective, what might we deduce about his heart?"

"I don't know."

John just knows that maybe Sherlock isn't as heartless as he wants himself to be.

* * *

Perhaps it was in Dartmoor that John saw Sherlock lose control for the very first time.

It scared him to see his friend like that.

And it hurt when Sherlock said that he didn't have friends.

John was  _angry._ He was so, inexplicably  _angry,_  because after saving his life twice and being one of the only people to tolerate him he thought that he was quite possibly Sherlock's friend, too.

He thought he had finally found a friend after so long.

Turns out he was wrong.

He put his life on the line for this insufferable man and it turns out that he doesn't even have the courtesy to thank him for being there, too?

Maybe he wasn't worth it.

* * *

John doesn't suppose that he ever thought his life would turn out this way – handcuffed to his best friend and running through the streets of London under the stars with Scotland Yard on their tail.

He felt the adrenaline pulsing through his veins, pumping out every second while he was running. The chill of the air stung his throat and made it scratchy, and the only warmth he felt was Sherlock's hand grasping his own.

An army doctor becoming a fugitive, it was a story for the record books.

Jim Moriarty. The fiercest adversary that Sherlock and John had ever encountered, had finally put the final pieces in place, and John was trapped with nowhere to go.

Being with Sherlock. Running with Sherlock. John felt like he had a gun in his mouth and there was a finger ready to pull the trigger.

And it was almost as if Sherlock was the one who pulled it when he jumped off that building.

He couldn't save his parents. He couldn't save his soldiers. He couldn't save Sherlock.

John Watson was definitely no hero. There's enough blood staining his ledger to prove that.

He felt numb. He felt like his entire world shattered before him and bled out on the pavement. His entire world was reduced to nothing but a final phone call, and a legacy of deception.

Sherlock Holmes was no fraud, he just broke John's heart.

He had thought that maybe this time was different. He had hoped that this time, he could be the hero. He thought that maybe this time…he could save someone.

But Sherlock Holmes isn't a war to be won.

The price of losing is having your soul stolen from you, until you are left with nothing but a shadow of your old self with an incapability to love and an incapacity to feel.

And death is so much kinder than that.

* * *

"Why today?"

"Do you want to hear me say it?"

"Eighteen months since our last appointment."

"Do you read the papers?"

There's a pause. "Sometimes."

John places his hand in front of his mouth, eyes boring into Ella's. "And you watch telly? You know why I'm here. I'm here because…"

He can't. He can't say it.

"What happened, John?"

There's a beat, and John listens to the sound of the rain hitting the window sill. He tries not to remember that day – the day the world stopped his heart.

"Sherlock," he starts, and he finds that the sound of his name is hard to say.

"You need to get it out."

John breathes, and he feels his chest constrict. It's hard for him to say, because saying it means that he's accepted that Sherlock's gone.

"My best friend, Sherlock Holmes," he begins, "is dead."

Ella leans forward, concern etched deeply on her face. "John," she begins, and he looks at her in response.

"Sherlock isn't real."

* * *

John felt like he was drowning.

The water was rushing into him, touching every part of his body and drowning him from the inside with no way out.

His head hurt with the pounding noise of a hammer.

It wasn't real. Sherlock wasn't real.

Harry had found him in his apartment, crumpled over the toilet seat, unconscious, with a spilled bottle of pills scattered on the white tiles.

John did turn around when he saw Mike Stamford.

He turned and never looked back.

Because it hurt. It hurt when he saw Mike sitting on that park bench, because he looked like he didn't have a care in the world and because most of all…he looked  _happy._  And John would give anything to be happy again.

So he hobbled back to his apartment, ashamed and scared to show his face to one of his old friends, because the memories of who he was and where he'd been was too much for him to handle.

His mind was suddenly filled with images of his parents slumped in the crashed car, his patients on the makeshift gurneys in the medical tents in Afghanistan, and the fact that he was no longer that little boy who smiled up to his mother in a brave way when took the ointment to apply to his skin.

He wasn't brave, not anymore.

But that doesn't mean he didn't want to be.

But he couldn't face him, not in the state that he was in.

He felt ashamed of himself, because that little boy prancing about in the back of his mind was braver than he could ever be.

Yesterday was kinder, and tomorrow only brings sorrow.

He overdosed on antidepressants, and as it turns out the young nurse who tended to him had the name Sarah Sawyer.

She sat by his bed in his unconscious state, and read him stories and classic tales, trying to keep his imagination and mind alive and well.

After he was cleared to check out of the hospital, Harry had taken him to a mental hospital in Central London, because when he was supposedly unconscious on a hospital bed, he kept mumbling a name.

The name Sherlock Holmes.

Before John passed out in his bathroom, he saw bright colors swirling about. He imagined adventures and adrenaline pumping through his veins. It felt  _right._

He saw mountains and the stars of London, he saw the adventures in the criminal underworld lurking about. He saw a battlefield so much like his own mind.

Ever since coming home from Afghanistan, he saw the world very differently.

He saw the horror and the sadness, he saw the crime and the fear, and he saw the passion and the excitement running through the veins of England.

Whispers of secrets, tales of unconquered kingdoms and stories with unresolved endings.

He wanted to save London, because he couldn't save himself or anyone else.

So he conjured up someone who would help him do just that.

Sherlock Holmes. A genius with a touch of fragility. A madman with a sprinkle of logic.

A man who was made up of everything John ever wanted in life.

Sherlock Holmes gave him an opportunity to save and bring justice to those who were unfortunate enough to fall victim to unjustly crimes.

He gave John an opportunity to make things  _right._

He gave him an opportunity to feel worthy, again.

But it was nothing but a fairy tale. One without a happy ending.

The pauper never met the prince, and never got to taste the feeling of glory.

Sherlock Holmes was nothing but a story in the end.

And John Watson was merely the sad man with a sad tale and a tragic ending.

And everyone else was just manifestations of those who tried to help him. When he was stuck in a room with a locked door and no key, a couple nurses going by the names of Molly Hooper, Mrs. Hudson and Sally Donovan had tried to help him.

A couple doctors by the name of Greg Lestrade, Anderson and Henry Knight had tried to help him too, as well as a particularly unpleasant one by the name of Jim Moriarty.

But John did nothing but push them away, going off on rants about Sherlock and their cases to an empty room and occasionally, to those who were willing enough to listen. Molly Hooper tended to listen closely, often interjecting her opinions on the matter, and John thought she was smart so he imagined her as a pathologist in St. Bart's that always helped with cases, and he always made her have a little crush on Sherlock because when he described him to her, she said that he must be a good looking man.

Irene Adler was hired to be his psychiatrist, but John would never listen to her, or realize that she was there. He was always far too busy with Sherlock to pay any attention. So in the end she left, and John was left with no one but the nurses and the doctors.

Irene, however, was a beautiful woman, stunning to say the least, and John envisioned her as an equal to Sherlock, because the man sometimes needed someone other than John to put him in his place, and he did have quite a fun time imagining the scene where Irene was beating Sherlock with a riding crop.

Mycroft didn't exist, however. John just thought him up because he thought that it was befitting to have someone try and fail to take care of Sherlock before he came along.

John spent most of his time enveloped in his hallucinations of a London that needed Sherlock Holmes.

But he also envisioned a man that needed him, as well.

Because sometimes Sherlock needs to be saved, and John has no qualms about doing it because he's saving those he holds dear as a way to forget about those that he couldn't.

But they still plagued his dreams.

Whenever he wasn't thinking about Sherlock, the ghosts and demons of what was once was still haunted him. They taunted him with a passion, manipulating and reminding him that he was  _nothing._

And they caught up with him, in the end.

They infiltrated his mind, clouding his hallucinations of Sherlock with darkness, making him remember that he could never save those he loved no matter how hard he tried.

His demons are what made Sherlock jump.

Just a cruel reminder of who John actually was.

A disgraced solider who was no hero.

* * *

He came back to Ella, about a week after Harry and the rest of the hospital staff had told him about what actually happened, and he felt worse than ever.

He felt…dazed.

"How are you, John?"

John knows the answer this time.

"I'm trying to stay alive day after day, and when I remember that he's not here with me it makes it harder to breathe."

Ella tilts her head, sadness overtaking her features. "Who was Sherlock to you, John?"

He looks at her, tears beginning to cloud over his vision.

"He was my everything. He was the sun and the moon, and the life in this city. He gave me a chance to be someone again. He gave me an opportunity to matter. He made me realize that I was more than who I already was, and whenever I was with him I felt like I was flying and I never wanted to land. He let me feel important and he filled the hole in my heart that was drilled when I saw my parents die. And now it feels like I have no heart at all. And…" John stops. He can't. He can't talk anymore.

Ella frowns, "And?"

"He saved me."

And John wasn't sure if he could handle a world without Sherlock in it.

* * *

The following days find John staring at the wall. He hasn't spoken since his meeting with Ella. He's hardly eaten.

He feels nothing.

He can't hear his heart beat in his chest. There is nothing but a buzzing noise in his head.

The room is in a blur.

The days fade into nights, and the weeks into months. And suddenly bodies become faceless, and time just stops.

He takes his medication when the nurses are watching, but he does it reluctantly because he doesn't want to forget.

When they leave he spits it out.

And when they notice, they check his mouth to make sure that he's actually keeping it down.

Can't they understand that he just doesn't want to forget?

Those dreams were the best days of his life. And he wishes he could go back.

On one evening, when the sky is particularly clear and the moon particularly bright, John hears the wind howl and flow through his window, cooling the empty room.

Sometimes, the wind turns into a pale man with a mop of curly black hair and a dark coat, and John spends the evening staring at the apparition through a series of realities.

John finds that there's no relief in sleeping. Sherlock just comes back in a hot wave of memories.

He was something terrifying and strange and beautiful, someone not everyone knows how to love.

Harry comes by to visit for the first time in four months, and they sit down in the guest room on the second floor, both with a cup of tea in their hands.

It feels good. Like there's sense of normalcy.

"How's things going?" she asks him.

John takes a sip of his tea, "Fine."

Harry quirks an eyebrow, "Now we both know that's not quite true."

John flashes back to a memory, where him and Sherlock were at the pool, and Moriarty reprimanded Sherlock for saying that he had no heart. He tries to suppress a shiver.

"Are you okay, John?"

He looks at her, startled. "Yes, fine. Why'd you ask?"

She sets the cup of tea down on the coffee table separating them. "You seemed lost."

"Yeah well, I'm lost most of these days."

Harry narrows her eyes at him, "Have things been getting better?"

"Yeah. Of course," John takes another sip of his tea.

"Don't lie to yourself John," she tells him.

"Yeah, well, that's the thing about lying to yourself. You don't know when to stop."

* * *

John stops lying to himself a month after Harry visits.

He starts taking medication regularly, and everything becomes clearer. Time starts moving again, and John can feel his heart beat.

He can finally breathe.

Sherlock appears less frequently, but when he does John smiles at him and he smiles back.

On one night, Sherlock appears, and John notices that there are tears in his eyes, but not the sad kind. He stretches out his hand, and Sherlock reaches for him too, but John's hand just falls through. He can feel a tingle left on his skin.

"Thank you for letting me go," Sherlock says, and then he's gone.

And John goes to sleep that night with the sound of a violin echoing through the wind playing the same song he fell asleep to on his second night at Baker Street.

He dreams of consulting detectives, pirates and London.

And he says goodbye.

* * *

**Well if I have to be honest, this is my first Sherlock fanfic and I would absolutely** _**love** _ **to know what you guys think and how I did. :3**

**So basically Sherlock is happy with John finally letting him go because he wants nothing more but for John to have the happy life that he deserves. And his tale was finally over, because he helped John get on the road to recovery.**

**And the title 'Over the Abyss' basically describes John trying and succeeding and trying to get over the dark abyss of his life.**

**And to conclude, thank you for reading and kudos to you if you read this far! Here, have a cookie!**

**Comment? :)**


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